


Burning/Building Bridges

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After having sex with Grantaire, a drunken Enjolras crashes his parents' gala, outing himself both as gay and as a political activist.  Then, the next day, he and Grantaire deal with their personal aftermath of the night before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning/Building Bridges

**Author's Note:**

> Written regarding [this gifset](http://spinthetireslightthefires.tumblr.com/post/43810298783/coquettesuzette-peridexis-coquettesuzette), which was recontextualized like so: _“ok but modern au when rich boy political activist enjolras shows up drunk at his parents’ cocktail party/awards ceremony thing wearing grantaire’s clothes and takes the piss out of the whole thing and tells mom and dad that he’s fucking a dude im sorry bye.”_

His parents would say he’s better than this.

His parents are most of the problem.

He storms up the driveway, past the expensive cars and chauffeurs who don’t recognize him in Grantaire’s hoodie and Grantaire’s jeans and certainly not with Grantaire’s whiskey on his breath.  But they don’t stop him, because he isn’t something they’re expecting and that frightens them.

 

This is the most reckless thing he’s ever done.  And he’s engineered things so he wound up spending a night in the drunk tank after a demonstration, and he’s done a dozen other things in the name of progress that ended with him battered and bloody.  But this has nothing to do with that, has nothing to do with bringing down the unfair system that made his life so easy when so many others’ lives were hard.

This is all about him.  He’s going to be selfish tonight, because he’s been being selfish all night and he might as well keep up the trend.

_Grantaire, staring at him like he’s something holy._

_Him, dropping down to press a drunken kiss to his friend’s waiting – **waiting** —lips._

_Them, fucking in Grantaire’s cramped bed._

_And then, lying there in the aftermath, Grantaire humming “Common People” and everything simply clicking, the gears turning in his drunk brain and driving him up the wall with rage and filling him with purpose, because why the fuck not?_

 The doorman recognizes him.  “Young Master –“

“I know, I’m not well dressed.  I’m just going in to talk to my parents.”  He gives him a smile, a smile much breezier than the moment is going to have to be.

“Be careful, sir,” the doorman says, but lets him through.

He navigates the halls just fine, even as drunk as he is, and he throws the ballroom doors open with a bang.  The room full of conspicuous consumption burns at him, and its inhabitants jump, necks snapping around to see what had made the noise.

“Good evening, Mom and Dad,” Enjolras greets them, and begins.

—— 

Grantaire runs like hell after Enjolras.  Enjolras is more wasted than Grantaire has ever seen him, and maybe Grantaire shouldn’t have hummed  _that_ , but he’s more than a little drunk too, and he’s always been a cynical drunk.

But he doesn’t want his Apollo to do anything stupid on anyone’s behalf, and certainly not his own, so he races after him, trying to catch up to him.

He doesn’t, but he does get there in time for everyone still outside to still be confused. 

“He did look drunk,” the doorman says.  “Good luck, my boy.”

Grantaire has the feeling he’s going to need it.

But then, he finds the open ballroom doors and Enjolras raging at a crowd of formally-dressed rich people, two of him who are obviously his parents.

“I know I’m not the son you wanted!  I know you wanted someone to follow in your grand old family traditions, to become a businessman and marry some sweet, useless girl content to consume things without thinking about them.  I know you wanted a son who would reflect well on your fucking  _high society._   And I spent far too long trying to be that man.”  Enjolras, even drunk half out of his mind, is still more eloquent than most. 

“But I am  _done!”_  he yells, taking a step forward.

Two large men in tuxedos take him by the arms and try to push him back, but Enjolras is inexorable.  He struggles against them, continuing: “I am not, have never been, and, God willing, will never be that man!  I’m going to  _do things_  with my time.  I’m going to fucking change the world, because I’m not going to stand for the world I grew up in to be the only way.”

The men push back at him, shoving him back toward the door.  “You should have known this centuries ago, but I’m an activist.  The money you send me goes to charities and protests against everything you’ve always stood for.” 

The men are almost overcoming Enjolras now, pushing him until he’s almost back to where Grantaire still stands.

“And by the way,” Enjolras calls out, a positively evil smile crossing his face, “I’m fucking another man.”

There’s complete silence in the wake of everything Enjolras has said, the heavy weight of his words, even drunk as he is, crushing all sound out of the room.

Enjolras allows himself to be dragged the rest of the way out, and the men in tuxedos slam the doors shut , leaving Enjolras and Grantaire standing there alone.  Grantaire waits for Enjolras to take notice of him, and he does after a long moment, turning and  _staring._

“You followed me?”  Enjolras’s voice is hoarse from yelling, but full of wonder.

“Y-yeah,” Grantaire says, unsettled.  “You just – you ran out, and there was fire in your eyes.  I didn’t want to find out tomorrow that you’d done something stupid.”

“Well, I’ve done.”  Enjolras smiles, pulling Grantaire closer and kissing him.

Grantaire pulls back.  “We should probably go – We’re probably in trouble, particularly if your parents decide that you’re in trouble.”

Enjolras laughs.  “I don’t actually care what they think,” he said, but he takes Grantaire’s hand and leads him out the doors.  The doorman catches Grantaire’s eye and smiles, and Grantaire’s at least glad for that. 

They’re still holding hands in silence halfway back to town.  Then Grantaire summons up the courage to ask, “Aren’t you going to be upset with yourself when you’re not drunk anymore?”

“Probably a little.  I could have come out a little less dramatically, maybe.  Or more.  I don’t know.”  He squeezes Grantaire’s hand a little tighter, and he’s smiling again, looking excited by everything that’s gone on tonight.  “But on the whole, I believe that Sober Enjolras is going to stand by Drunk Enjolras’s decisions.”

“Oh, good,” Grantaire says softly. 

He hopes it’s so.

 ——

Enjolras wakes to a pretty major hangover, his mouth tasting like whiskey and wine, and rolls over.

Into Grantaire, who is in bed with him.

They’re both fully-clothed, and it takes Enjolras a long moment to remember what had happened the night before.  He remembers giving in, finally taking what he wanted from Grantaire, and Grantaire giving it willingly.  He remembers deciding there were bridges he needed to burn, and setting them ablaze in a drunken furor.

He goes very still.

“Fuck,” he whispers, decently sure that Grantaire’s still sleeping – and, God, he wants Grantaire to still be sleeping, because if he wakes, he’ll be hungover, and this will be even more complicated than it already has to be.

Enjolras considers, thinking for a moment, if he should slip out of bed now and leave, or if he should leave and leave a note, or if he should just lie here, waiting for Grantaire to wake up.  The first two make him feel guilty just to think about doing, but he’s afraid of what will happen with the third.

Because he doesn’t know how Grantaire feels about him.  He can’t remember if they talked at all last night, even.  He just remembers kissing Grantaire, fucking him, and Grantaire taking it enthusiastically.

But Grantaire likes sex; this is something Enjolras has known for all the years they’ve been friends.  He dated Montparnasse solely for the sex, and the one time Grantaire and Eponine had hooked up, it had left ‘Ponine dazed and confused and satisfied for days.  So it’s not surprising that this happened.  That Enjolras’s control broke and Grantaire just rolled with the punches, because he’s Grantaire and he can handle anything.

Enjolras hates himself briefly for doing this, for breaking.  He’d been drunk, which had been his first mistake, and they’d been out in a club, which had been his second, and Grantaire had been dancing with some lithe young thing with long, blonde hair — she’d looked a little like Cosette, actually — and Enjolras had been too drunk to remember that Grantaire was not actually his.  Jealousy had consumed him, and he’d pulled Grantaire away from the girl, and from there it had devolved into messy kissing and going home with Grantaire and then the sex and Enjolras’s realization and subsequent bridge-burning with his parents.

“Do you want to leave?” Grantaire says, and Enjolras stiffens.  He wasn’t expecting this, far from it.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, almost hesitant.

Grantaire shrugs one shoulder, and Enjolras wants to hold him again, wants to pull him close and do everything from last night all over again, but do it relatively sober.

“Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras turns away, the rejection burning in his stomach.  “Then I’ll — I’ll go.  Where are my…?”

He trails off, then sits up, not caring.  He’s going to leave, going to go back home and pretend that part of him isn’t shriveling up in his chest and dying because Grantaire doesn’t care either way if they have sex or if afterwards Enjolras is still around.  He can handle this.  He’s handled worse.

(Except really, he hasn’t, not like this — Grantaire usually denies him nothing, and that’s probably part of the problem, probably why Drunk Enjolras thought this was okay — and he’s dying inside.)

He leaves the room, pads down the hall in socks, finds his shoes by the door, and walks out.

It’s a five minute walk back to his place, and he doesn’t really know what he’s going to do when he gets there, because he can’t focus on anything but the pit of despair opening in his gut.

 ——

Grantaire is too hungover to realize what he’s saying until Enjolras is already out of the room, and he almost pukes trying to get up, because he drank too much last night after Enjolras fell asleep, because how else was he supposed to sleep with Enjolras in his bed?

So he doesn’t have the chance to stop him and he’s going to punch himself in the face as soon as he’s got the fine motor skills back to do so.

He’s loved Enjolras for too long, and he’s built mechanisms to hide it from everyone (though everyone but Enjolras seems to have figured it out on their own anyway), and what he said had to have been one of those kicking into gear.  Because he’s still afraid — he’s terrified — of what all of this means.

He can’t believe that he’s had this, that Enjolras even seemed hesitant to leave, and he’s not sure what any of it means.

“Fuck,” he groans to himself, loudly.

Jehan hears him from the other room and appears at the open doorway.  He’s got a hot mug of tea and looks worried.  “What’s wrong?”

“I — I think I fucked up.  No, I  _know_  I fucked up.”  Grantaire presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to block out the light and hold back the actual tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

He feels the corner of the bed dip as Jehan sits down.  “Did you sleep with Montparnasse again?”

It occurs to him that not everyone saw him and Enjolras leave the club together, so not everyone knows what happened.  He groans again.  “Worse.  A thousand times worse.”

Jehan makes a little noise of thoughtfulness in his throat, like he’s considering what could be worse, considering that the thing with Montparnasse had ended so badly that it’s become almost infamous as the thing that Grantaire did, even among people outside their group of friends.

“Well, you obviously had sex last —  _oh_.”  Jehan’s “oh” is delicate, almost breathy.  “You  _didn’t_.”

Grantaire’s not exactly sure what he means, but Jehan’s voice is somewhat soothing.

“That’s Enjolras’s favorite sweater,” Jehan murmurs.  “You had sex with him — and _that’s_  who I heard leaving?”

“Yes.”  Grantaire nods, feeling like the world has already ended and he’s waiting to be enveloped by the blast radius.  “I — I wasn’t thinking straight, I — fuck, Jehan.  I don’t know what to do.”

“When you feel able, go after him and apologize.  It’s only fair to both of you.”  Jehan’s the sensible one out of the two of them when it comes to relationships and even friendships, and Grantaire has never been more thankful for that than he is right now.  “I’m sure he’ll at least hear you out.”

“So you’re saying I should just — that I should just confess that I’ve been in love with him since practically the moment we met?”

“Something like that, yes.”

—— 

 Enjolras sits there, embarrassed at his own reaction.  It’s not Grantaire’s fault, and he needs to stop sitting here fuming, trying and failing to study.  He’s already tried working on planning the next protest, or at least having a plan to present to the group when they have their next official meeting on Tuesday, but he’s gotten used to Grantaire being here for that during the past few months — he keeps turning, a point or a question on his lips bound to provoke Grantaire’s cynicism.

He’s only gotten better at this with Grantaire to temper him — being surrounded by opinions similar to his own strengthens his convictions, but having Grantaire around strengthens his  _arguments_  as well, and he could not have asked for better than that.

He tosses his textbook aside and falls back against the couch.  It’s been hours since he left Grantaire’s house, and he’s wondering if Grantaire’s going to say anything, if they’re just going to pretend that last night didn’t happen.

Then, there’s a knock on his apartment door.  No one ever knocks — either Enjolras has the door unlocked because there’s someone around, or they have a key.  He knows that Grantaire has a key, so he makes the grand assumption that it’s not him, however much part of him wants it to be.

His assumption is very, very wrong.

He opens the door and Grantaire is standing there, disheveled and uncomfortable looking.  He looks askance.  “Hi.”

“Hello,” Enjolras replies, body stiff with tension and outright fear.  But he steps back and gestures for Grantaire to come in.  “Good morning.”

Everything that has ever been eloquent about Enjolras disappears, because he doesn’t know how to handle this.  There’s no precedent for this situation, no reflexive action he can fall back on, because he’s never cared so much about a single person on so many different levels as he does Grantaire, and he’s afraid that it’s too much, that these emotions are going to ruin everything.

Grantaire steps inside.  “I — um.  I want to apologize.”

“What for?” Enjolras asks, tipping his head to the side as he closes the door behind Grantaire.

“Making you feel like you had to leave,” Grantaire says, not looking at him.  There’s something skittish about Grantaire, like he’s not expecting this to go over well.  ”I was being an ass.”

“I’m sorry I put you in that situation,” Enjolras replies, running a hand through his hair nervously.

Grantaire’s head snaps up and he meets Enjolras’s eyes.  “We were drunk, Enjolras, but we were not that drunk.  If I hadn’t — if I didn’t want to have done — Goddamnit.”  He looks away.

“You like sex, though — I had no right to just —” Enjolras rubs at his temples with one hand. He doesn’t know why he’s fighting this, why he doesn’t just pull Grantaire close and kiss him again, because Grantaire did want it last night, and Enjolras, Enjolras is surprisingly easy when it’s Grantaire.

Grantaire both pins him and shuts him up with a look. “Are you trying to take it back.”

“No!” Enjolras’ voice is a little higher pitched than he would like when he says it. “Never.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Grantaire asks, his expression guarded, like he’s expecting something to go wrong — but of course, Grantaire is always expecting something to go wrong, and for all it frustrates Enjolras, it’s one of the things he’s come to love about him.

Enjolras swallows. He looks away. “I…I shouldn’t have been drunk for that.”

He can only hope that Grantaire understands what he means, because he’s afraid to say it out loud, because it’s a thing he’s kept close and kept secret for far too long, deep in the center of him. It’s his one real secret, his one indulgence in concealment.

“Does that mean it’s in the cards to…happen again?” Grantaire asks, his voice soft.

“If you want it to,” Enjolras replies, still not looking at him. He doesn’t know if he wants to see what kind of expression Grantaire is wearing, because there’s something like hope growing in his gut, and he doesn’t want to kill it.

He’s not expecting Grantaire to reach out and touch him, to take his chin in his hand to force him to meet his gaze.

“I want it to,” Grantaire admits, voice too-steady. “What I’m asking is whether  _you_ want it to.”

Enjolras swallows again and nods. He’s done hiding this from Grantaire. He’s done pretending, because even drunk, even with his defenses down, last night was up there in terms of the best nights of his life.

Actually, looking at that list, Grantaire is on almost every entry.

And now, Grantaire is looking at him like he can hardly believe it’s happening, and his hand is warm on Enjolras’s chin. Enjolras reaches out himself, gently curling his hand in Grantaire’s shirt (the same one he’d been wearing when they woke this morning) and tugs him closer. “Please,” Enjolras murmurs, because he’s not sure what else to do.

Grantaire surges forward then and kisses him, walking him back the pace and a half to the wall. Enjolras goes with it, wants it, because last night Grantaire had given and given and given, so it’s only fair he take today.

And it’s good, more than good, because Enjolras is left breathless by the kiss, weakened entirely.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire whispers when he pulls away to breathe. Enjolras’s legs have long since buckled, and it’s only being pinned between Grantaire and the wall that’s keeping him vertical.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, winding his arms around Grantaire’s neck, because he is, he really is.

 ——

Grantaire can hardly believe this is happening, but Enjolras is moving against him like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, and Enjolras is completely sober, and Grantaire is as close to sober as he can safely be. Enjolras, by rights, should be doing something important — planning a protest, or saving the whales, or a thousand other things that aren’t kissing Grantaire, but he’s kissing him anyway, and all of that focus, all of that gorgeous purposefulness, is trained on Grantaire like a laser.

It’s hard to breathe, even without the fact that they’re kissing each other senseless.

“When did you decide to —” he cuts himself off, doesn’t finish saying  _to give me the time of day_ , because Enjolras doesn’t like it when Grantaire self-deprecates, even if it’s true.

Especially when it’s true.

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” Enjolras manages, and Grantaire seizes up a little in surprise. “I didn’t know how to deal with it, but, God, Grantaire — it’s been too long.”

There’s nothing Grantaire can say, nothing he knows  _how_  to say to that.

Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind, even though his touch goes gentle. “Then, we were drunk, and that girl was all over you…I couldn’t hide it anymore, to be quite honest.”

Grantaire remembers being slammed against the wall first in the club, and then in the alley outside, Enjolras possessive and claiming every inch of him. He remembers even through the haze of alcohol how good it had felt to be kissed like that. In some ways, it’s even better to be kissed like this, though.

Because Enjolras is being gentle, almost frighteningly so, his lips dragging over Grantaire’s and then down his neck to where his heart is tripping a double-time pulse. He’s touching Grantaire like he’s something precious, something infinitely so, and it’s starting to scare the shit out of Grantaire — he isn’t sure how to deal with this kind of attention, not from Enjolras. He knows that Enjolras cares, but Enjolras never was tender in the past, not really to anyone who wasn’t, say, Jehan (because everyone is tender to Jehan).

Grantaire is too used to fighting and the razor of Enjolras’s intellect flaying away at his hard-kept cynicism. Too used to fighting over everything from method to means to Grantaire’s drinking.

But here, Enjolras is touching him, holding him like he can do no wrong, and that, more than anything, scares the crap out of him.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, one hand carding into Grantaire’s hair.

Grantaire closes his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Enjolras says, kindly, and he kisses Grantaire softly. “Is there something I can do to help?”

“I — I’m not used to you being so…so like this. With me.”

Enjolras stills, his expression sobering.  “Have I really been so terrible?” he asks, and it’s an honest question that still makes Grantaire feel awful.

“No — I — I’m just used to the fighting.”  Grantaire looks away.  “It…it’s a little weird.”

“I’m sorry.  I want to make it up to you?” Enjolras says, kissing his cheek.  “If you don’t mind?”

Grantaire doesn’t, he really doesn’t.  So he turns back to Enjolras and kisses him, firm, let still soft as he could manage.  He lets himself slip his arms around Enjolras’s waist and pull him close, enjoying the way their bodies align — he hadn’t had the chance to do that last night, not really.

Enjolras makes a soft, inscrutable noise and shifts his hips gently, as if to say he needs more.

“Do you want — do you want to go again?” Grantaire asks, one hand settling on one of Enjolras’s hips as his Apollo pulls him even closer.  “Because I could — I could go again.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, nipping at Grantaire’s lower lip.  “Yes, please.”

——

Enjolras has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s had sex before, of course.  Good sex, even great sex, while sober. 

But he’s never done this sober with Grantaire, and, somehow, that makes all of the difference in the world.  Last night had been desperate and heavy, them driving into each other like shattered glass and pavement, but that’s not what today’s about.

Enjolras leads Grantaire to the bedroom by the hand, his eyes averted.  He’s nervous, and that irritates him.

But Grantaire seems to get it — as soon as they’re in the bedroom, Grantaire closes the door behind them and almost reels him in, slinging an arm around his waist and kissing him.  Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s hands trembling, and he’s not sure if it’s how sober Grantaire is or if he shares Enjolras’ nervousness, but somehow he’s comforted by those hands anyway.

So he kisses back, careful and steady and sure as he knows how, his own hands cupping Grantaire’s face.  It’s only a little like he’s afraid Grantaire will disappear, because this is so new for them both.

Enjolras has been thinking about this for ages, thinking about what it would be like to make love to Grantaire.  He’s talked to  _Jehan_  about it, for God’s sake, and he’s lucky that Jehan holds secret-keeping as almost as inviolable as romance. 

Carefully, he walks backwards, taking Grantaire with him.  He’s still kissing him, only separating a few centimeters to breathe every now and then, because he’s vaguely certain that there are about two things in life that he wants more than anything else: the end of oppression, and to never stop kissing Grantaire.  He wishes he could have both at once, but he’ll settle for just the latter right now.

Obviously, Grantaire has tempered his idealism already.

“I want,” Enjolras murmurs softly, falling back onto the bed, his hands tangled in Grantaire’s shirt,  “I want you to — I want you to make love to me.”

“I am agog, I am aghast,” Grantaire whispers, and it’s half sarcastic, half utterly awed.  “Someone mark the calendar; it’s a historic event — you saying ‘make love.’”

“Well, last night we fucked, and while it was wonderful” — because it was, it was — “I…I want you to make love to me.”

Grantaire leans down to nip at his jaw, and Enjolras can feel him smiling against his skin.  “Have you been spending too much time with Jehan?  Have you two been plotting my downfall all this time, without my knowledge?”

Enjolras can’t help but laugh.  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ahh, Apollo, it’s fine to admit your imperfections – though we all know that Jehan moonlights as some kind of minor love god.”  Grantaire is grinning outright now, pulling back to meet Enjolras’s eyes.  He looks beyond excited, he looks exhilarated and all the more gorgeous for it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Enjolras replies, grinning as well before he pulls Grantaire down into a thorough, almost needy kiss, one leg hooking around Grantaire’s hips.

Because it’s true – the only thing that matters is that they’re here.

——

Enjolras is beautiful, particularly when he smiles, when he laughs.

It’s rare, especially when he’s consumed by his work, and Grantaire still can only half-believe that he himself is the reason for Enjolras’ sudden joviality. So he buries himself in kissing Enjolras, hand skipping down to touch the thigh hooked round his hip, a reminder that this is happening.

“Thank you,” he murmurs almost absently, his mouth skating Enjolras’s jaw.

“You’ve nothing to thank me for, R,” Enjolras murmurs back, and Grantaire is too distracted by the dimuinitive of his name to register the brushoff for a long moment.

But he notices, and says softly, “For believing in me. I’m not — I’m not the easiest company to keep.”

“Nor am I,” Enjolras shoots back, pulling Grantaire closer, “especially not for someone like yourself. I know you disbelieve in almost everything.”

“I believe in you,” Grantaire says back, almost automatically. Because he does; there is nothing more immediate and obvious for him. For all he thinks that Enjolras is too idealistic, too bright for this dismal and damaged world, he also believes that if anyone can do it, Enjolras has the bullheaded stubbornness to save an unsaveable world.

Enjolras is smiling, still, and he pulls Grantaire further up the bed, laughing at him when he kisses his throat as opposed to the lips he was looking for.

“You’re beautiful,” Enjolras manages.

“I don’t think that you’re directing that at the right person into the room,” Grantaire mutters, kissing him quiet.

Enjolras rolls them over on the bed, bracketing Grantaire between his limbs. His eyes are almost fierce with conviction, and Grantaire is reminded of Enjolras at work, of the avenging angel of the common man, and he is about to say something to calm him down, but Enjolras covers his mouth with a hand.

“Say nothing,” Enjolras murmurs.  “Let me speak.”

Grantaire stills, because when Enjolras pitches his voice just so, he is unable and utterly unwilling to refuse him anything.  Fear swoops up in his stomach, though, because this could end badly.

——

“You are beautiful, Grantaire.”  Enjolras kisses his jaw.  “Even in simply the most superficial physical ways.  I’m sure you know that you get stared at in bars and nightclubs — we all do, but you, you in particular.  Your body is lean, and your skin, while scarred in places and more often than not daubed with paint, is soft and pale.”  He nips at Grantaire’s earlobe.  “Your hair is exactly the kind that begs to be pulled, to be mussed — all these gorgeous dark curls, so obviously soft to touch…”  Enjolras buries a hand in Grantaire’s hair and tugs a little.  “You would not believe how often I’ve wished I could do that on a regular basis.”

Grantaire blinks, not sure where this is going, because it’s obvious to him that Enjolras is only just getting started, and it doesn’t strike Grantaire as something that would end here, anyway.

He isn’t wrong about that, at all.

—— 

Enjolras knows that no one has a lower opinion of Grantaire than Grantaire does, so he takes it slowly as he continues.  “But you are so much more than that, as well.  You are brilliantly intelligent.”  Because Grantaire is, and it’s another daily frustration of Enjolras’s that Grantaire’s intellect had lead him to cynicism, because that brilliant mind could probably have done as much as Enjolras has, if not more — the kind of creative genius that Grantaire has deserves a cause, deserves a muse.

“And you are a good man, for all you think you’re not.”  Enjolras kisses his way down Grantaire’s neck, free hand playing at the hem of his shirt.  “Don’t think we don’t notice when you do things like let ‘Ponine and her siblings stay over in yours and Jehan’s apartment because Thenardier’s been drinking worse than usual, or how you put up with being surrounded by all of these raging idealists.”  He smiles, hand slipping under the shirt to splay fingers against skin.  “Despite believing the world is irreparable, you are kind in a million different ways that, often, I am not.”

Because Enjolras is many things, but kind is not often one of them.  It’s not for lack of caring, but lack of attention paid.  Enjolras cares for his friends, deeply, but he isn’t capable of the kind of absent kindness that comes so second-nature to people like Grantaire, or Jehan, or even Combeferre or Joly or Feuilly.  He needs to make the effort to remember things like birthdays and coffee orders, and he would feel worse about it if not for the fact that everyone assures him that they understand.

“I love all of these things about you.  I love the parts of you that you either cannot or will not see, and I want you to try and remember that.”  Enjolras pulls his hand away from Grantaire’s mouth, replacing it with his lips so he can bury his hands in Grantaire’s hair.

When he pulls back, he searches Grantaire’s face for understanding.

Grantaire is staring at him, like Enjolras has just said something far more insane than usual. “I…I’ll try.”

“Good,” Enjolras replies, smiling at him. “Now, do you want to…?”

“I barely even care how that sentence ends,” Grantaire says, voice low, and It only seems half affectation. “Just get your clothes off.”

Enjolras laughs, kneeling up and pulling his shirt up over his head and tossing it across the room. He takes another look at Grantaire, who is watching him hungrily now. “I’m only too glad to.”

“God,” Grantaire groans. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Hopefully not.” Enjolras leans down and kisses him again, taking his hands and bringing them to his chest. “Touch me.”

Grantaire’s eyes are dark with want, and a thrill runs through Enjolras.

He’s expecting it when Grantaire pulls him down again and rolls them over. It doesn’t make it any less arousing.

——

Grantaire slides his hands over Enjolras’s skin, callused palms on smooth, pale skin. He can’t get over the fact that he’s allowed to do this now, and he revels in the sensation for a moment before he flicks his thumbs over Enjolras’s nipples, drawing a pleasured gasp from the other man. “You’re gorgeous, you know,” he mutters to Enjolras. “And I’m glad I have you here.”

Enjolras hooks a hand around the back of Grantaire’s neck. “Yes.”

“God, you’re going to kill me someday,” Grantaire mutters, kissing him again. “And I’m not even going to care.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says quietly, like he knows it’s only half metaphor.

Grantaire kisses him again, straddling him to grind their growing erections together, reveling in the little noises that pulls out of the other man. Enjolras is far from marble during this kind of thing — he makes little noises and groans and aborted movements that drive Grantaire absolutely insane with want. He’s even more beautiful the more undone Grantaire can get him, and, now, Grantaire wonders if he can drive him all the way over the edge, and how best to go about it.

“I want — I want you inside me,” Enjolras murmurs between kisses, spreading his legs almost wantonly, and that’s it, that’s all, folks, Grantaire is never going to have sex with anyone else ever again, not now that he’s heard those words and felt that motion underneath him.

Last night had been desperate and wonderful and beautiful and awful, them grinding against each other until they were slick and sticky with each others’ release, and Grantaire will give anything to do it right this time.

He’d probably sign away his very soul, if Enjolras asked him to.

Instead, he kisses his way down Enjolras’ chest, murmuring “yes, yes, of course,” because he can’t forget to actually say it, can’t forget to tell Enjolras how totally okay with being inside Enjolras he is.

“You’re still wearing my pants,” he mutters when he gets to the waistband of those pants. “You forgot your jacket, too. It’s still on my bedroom floor.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras manages, even as his hips hitch.

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind.” Grantaire unbuttons the pants in question, his lips curling into a smile. “I might keep it, though, if you don’t come back for it soon.”

Enjolras laughs again, almost giddy.

Grantaire could probably listen to that for approximately forever.

 

——

Enjolras does his best to keep his hips still when Grantaire goes down on him, tries to keep still entirely, but he can’t help it when his hands reach for Grantaire’s dark curls; he aches and yearns and  _wants_ , desperately, and he doesn’t want to push too hard, move too fast.

Grantaire is  _good_  at this, too, and Enjolras starts to lose himself in the situation, in the sensation of Grantaire’s mouth on his cock. It’s been a long some since Enjolras has been blown by anyone — since, besides last night, that he’s gotten off with someone else — but there’s a technique to what Grantaire’s doing, his tongue sliding under the head and over the vein gently, almost tentatively.

Enjolras groans, his hips shifting just a little, and it occurs to him that he wants to come with Grantaire’s cock inside him. “Grantaire —”

And Grantaire stops, immediately, pulling off and looking at him. “Yes?”

“Want to — want you to be inside me when I finish.” Enjolras doesn’t need to blush, and he doesn’t, until the hungry look in Grantaire’s eyes seems to heat his skin all on its own.

“Of course,” Grantaire says, and he smiles when he leans down and kisses him hard.

Enjolras spreads his legs even further, trying to draw attention to his cock and his ass, because  _fuck_ , he wants, and wants  _right now_.

Grantaire smirks. “Never would have expected you to be so…needy.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras moans, because Grantaire has wrapped his hand around Enjolras’s cock, pumping slowly and almost languidly.

Grantaire laughs, and almost scuttles back down the bed before stopping. “Where’s the lube?”

“Nightstand, top drawer, same with the condoms.” Enjolras only barely has the presence of mind to get all of it out, because Grantaire’s still touching him, calloused artist’s palm against his skin providing the best kind of friction, just on the edge of pain.

“Good,” Grantaire says, and his hand leaves Enjolras’s cock for a moment — Enjolras whines at the loss — and then he’s back, smirking and holding up the lube and a condom for Enjolras to see.

Then Enjolras has his legs as spread as he can get them, hips hitching a little. It’s almost embarrassing how much he wants Grantaire inside him, but he doesn’t care — it’s not like he’s trying to hide the fact that he prefers to bottom, or that he’s fantasized about having Grantaire inside him on an almost regular basis for the last year or so.

Grantaire makes this  _noise_ , too, like he’s never seen anything hotter than this, and Enjolras feels a surge of pride at that, even over the arousal. Then everything disappears except for the chill of one of Grantaire’s slick fingers pressing gently against his hole, and Enjolras is totally gone.

“Please,” he moans, pushing his hips, trying to get that finger to breach him.

Grantaire keeps just out of reach and chuckles lowly. “Desperate, desperate.”

Enjolras growls, and then Grantaire’s finger pushes inside him, and even the burn is good. Everything about this is good, to be honest, and it might kill him, but he’s going to die a happy man.

 

——

Grantaire can’t get over how responsive Enjolras is. It’s as if the restrained, work-oriented man is completely gone, reduced almost to a creature of pure sensation.

He loves it.

This is a side of Enjolras that Grantaire has never seen in full before, having been too desperate last night to think of anything but  _this is it, this is what I’ve been waiting for_.

But here he is, with Enjolras on his back and making all of these gorgeous little noises, writhing back on Grantaire’s finger like it’s the sexiest thing ever. After a long moment, those noises turn into Enjolras begging for more, and Grantaire can’t refuse him.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Grantaire says softly, kissing the inside of Enjolras’s thigh. “I never really expected to be able to do this.”

Enjolras hitches his hips, fucking back onto Grantaire’s fingers. “No,” he growls. “Don’t be like that.” He leans up on his elbows and  _glares_  down at Grantaire. “You can have this, have me. I  _want_  this. So stop feeling inadequate and get up here and _fuck me_.”

Grantaire stares at him. “I was trying to  _compliment_  you.”

“Not at your own expense, you’re not.”

Enjolras looks irritated over all of the lust glazing them. He hitched his hips again on Grantaire’s fingers, and Grantaire glares. “Not until I’ve prepped you more, goddamnit.”

“I can take it.”

“Don’t be like that, Enjolras. I’m going to do this the right way, so let me. Don’t say anything else before I get inside you.”  Grantaire kisses him again.

Enjolras nods, his lower lip protruding just a little to show his disagreement with the general idea.

Grantaire presses a third finger into him, though, and Enjolras’s expression fades into one of naked desire.  Enjolras looks much better like this, Grantaire thinks to himself, than he does irritated.

“Good, that’s better,” Grantaire mutters, kissing the other thigh as he slowly works Enjolras open.  It’s not long before Enjolras’s face is twisted up with want and the wordless cries from his throat mean he’s ready.  Grantaire’s not sure exactly how he knows that — they’ve never done this before — but he does, and he pulls his fingers out of Enjolras to roll on and slick up a condom, his own touch almost like fire after having ignored his erection for so long.

After that, he moves into position above Enjolras, and Enjolras spreads his legs as far as they’ll go, looking obscene and open and  _beautiful_  as Grantaire lines himself up to press inside.

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras breathes as the head of Grantaire’s cock breaches him.  “ _Yes_.”

“You really like this, don’t you?” Grantaire murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle Enjolras’s jaw as he slowly pushes further into him.  He’s careful about this, because even after prepping Enjolras like he has, he doesn’t want to move too fast.

Enjolras nods, breathless for a moment.  “It’s been a long time, but yes, I do love this.”

“Who’d have thought.”  The words are softer than Grantaire intended — he’d aimed for teasing, not reverent, and this seems to be a mix of both.

“I imagined this,” Enjolras murmurs, hands coming up to reach underneath Grantaire’s shirt.  Grantaire is still almost entirely clothed, and Enjolras is long since naked, and the touch of Enjolras’s fingers on his skin is electric, the words even more so.

——

Enjolras loves the effect his words have on Grantaire almost as much as he loves the growing feeling of Grantaire’s cock inside him.  Grantaire’s mouth drops open just a little and his hips stutter for a moment before returning to that inexorably slow press inward, and Enjolras feels a swell of pride at seeing and feeling that.

“I imagined this,” he repeats, drawing his fingernails up Grantaire’s sides.  “I got off imagining this, in the shower, on this very bed, trying to pretend that my fingers were you.”

“And how do I compare?” Grantaire says, almost dryly, but his arms are shaking from the restraint he’s showing.

Enjolras smiles and hitches his hips, forcing Grantaire in the rest of the way in one smooth motion to make his point as he says, “Trust me, the fantasies cannot compare.”

Grantaire grins at him, a moment of pride suffusing the other man for a moment before Grantaire makes to move.  Enjolras wraps his legs around Grantaire’s waist, and it’s one of the best sensations Enjolras has ever encountered, Grantaire moving inside him.  There’s a certain burn, a sting, but Enjolras doesn’t care — in fact he relishes it.  He loves the reality of this moment too much for the slight pain to bother him.

And Grantaire keeps the pain to a minimum almost instinctively, his thrusts slow and easy as Enjolras gets used to the sensation, and then picking up speed.  It’s a dialing back of control, and Enjolras loves it almost as much as he loves Grantaire himself — the man is  _good_  at sex.

Enjolras finds himself slowly being taken apart by the one man in the world he cares for most, the one person he’s fallen in love with in a long time — possibly ever, because he’s never felt this deeply or been so passionate about anything except his myriad revolutions.  It’s good, almost too good, and Enjolras fucks himself back on every one of Grantaire’s thrusts in such a way as to ask for more without asking.

And when he asks, Grantaire gives, gives without hesitation.  He takes up an almost punishing pace, and Enjolras might die before this sex is over, or he might come untouched — either of the two seems equally likely at this point.

Grantaite, though, seems to be faring only a little better; he only reaches this kind of perfect control when he’s acting, and he only acts when saying or doing what he really means would be a loss of all control.

“Are you cl-close?” Enjolras asks him.

——

Grantaire almost doesn’t hear Enjolras’s question, so caught up is he in the way their bodies move against each other, and in the fact he can  _do_  this now, that this is permissible, this is permitted.

“Yes,” he mutters, “But I want you to come first.”

Frankly, he wants to follow Enjolras over the cliff-edge into orgasm, because he imagines that the clench of muscles around his cock will be what does it.

Enjolras makes this gorgeous whining noise, and Grantaire smirks, half-lucid again.  He says, “I imagined this, too.  Imagined taking you apart until there was nothing left but a mewling mess that would never forget I’d been there.”  It had been a bittersweet fantasy — he’d never expected to be  _loved_ , only to be fucked in a moment of poor judgment on Enjolras’s part.

“I-I’d carve you into my bones if I could,” Enjolras declares, face hidden in Grantaire’s hair.

Grantaire moans at that and has to, just  _has to_ , steal a kiss.  The kiss turns filthy rather quickly, and Grantaire reaches down between them to tug on Enjolras’s cock.  He lets go a little of his control, and his thrusts get a little wilder.

Enjolras is entirely incoherent now, his head thrown back on the pillows, the column of his neck almost sculptural, and Grantaire works him over as best he can. 

He feels Enjolras tense, and he seals his mouth over the other man’s because Enjolras is coming now, all over Grantaire’s hand and his shirt and Enjolras’s naked chest.  Grantaire’s not looking, but he knows it’s a debauched tableau.  Then all conscious thought is blown away as Enjolras tightens around him, the pulses doing just as expected.

Grantaire comes with a shout, his face buried in Enjolras’s shoulder.  He stills, and shakes, and only barely doesn’t collapse on top of Enjolras, who stares up at him with glassy, sated eyes.

After a moment, the danger of collapse resumes, and so Grantaire pulls out, tying off the condom and chucking it into the trash can on the other side of the bed.  He takes off his shirt and uses it to mop up the remains of Enjolras’s release, and then the shirt joins the condom — there will be no salvaging it.

When Grantaire is finished, he finds himself being enveloped in Enjolras’s arms again, his nakedness against Grantaire’s.  Enjolras rolls them over so he’s on top, and Grantaire’s about to ask what he’s doing, when it occurs to hims that perhaps it’s not something he wants to know.

——

There’s a flash of worry on Grantaire’s face, and Enjolras leans down to kiss it away — Grantaire has no reason to worry about this, and Enjolras will spend as long as he has to convincing him of that.

Enjolras tugs at Grantaire’s pants and underwear, still sort of bunched around his hips and thighs, and pulls them off.  He doesn’t look up at Grantaire until he’s finished, dropping the discarded clothes in the pile with Enjolras’s own — which are, actually, also Grantaire’s.

He meets Grantaire’s eyes meaningfully — he knows what Grantaire is afraid of, and Enjolras wants to make it clear as day that this is not going to be a one-night-stand or other short-term affair.

They both love each other too much for that.

Grantaire still doesn’t seem to get it, still seems surprised by Enjolras’s gentleness, so Enjolras turns it up a little, sliding up the bed to pull Grantaire close.  He nuzzles his face into the gap between Grantaire’s jaw and his shoulder, kissing the back of his neck before he settles.

“If you don’t mind staying?” he asks, quiet and almost hesitant.

It’s up to Grantaire now, and Enjolras hopes he isn’t wrong about what’s going on between them.

Grantaire turns over to face him, staring wide-eyed at him.  “You…you don’t have things to do?”

“Of course I have things to do.  But it seems that, for now, my priorities have quite firmly shifted.”  Revolutions can wait; he has Grantaire in his bed and in his arms.  He would rather be nowhere else on earth right now.

“I’m on your list of priorities?” Grantaire asks, as though he really doesn’t know.

“Of course you are.  It was because of you that I stormed my family’s gala, Grantaire.”  Enjolras tips his face forward to kiss Grantaire’s collarbone.  “I realized — my family will never accept what I’ve chosen to do with my life, and will never accept that I will never be the man they tried to raise me to be, and it was better to cut ties loudly and publicly.”

“Because we fucked?” Grantaire asks, brow furrowing.

Enjolras shakes his head.  “Because I’m not going to try to explain to them why I want to change the world, and why I want you at my side when I do.”

“God, you’re sappy,” Grantaire grumbles, but he presses his lips to Enjolras’s, so he can’t be too annoyed.

“I’ve been bottling things up for too long.  I’ll be sounding absolutely ridiculous for weeks, I’m sure.”  Enjolras pulls Grantaire closer, tangles his fingers in his mass of dark curls.  “But frankly, I don’t care.”

Grantaire smiles, and it comes without a catch.

——

“Do you want to sleep?” Grantaire asks.  He feels a little tired from their exertions and from the emotions they’ve had to deal with today, and he can think of no other way to enjoy this post-sex euphoria than to cuddle — yes, /cuddle/ — with Enjolras until they both fall asleep.

“I think I’d like that,” Enjolras murmurs, kissing him again.

So they do, and when Grantaire wakes up later to Enjolras wrapped around him and a sunset filtering his Apollo golden through the curtains, part of him actually believes that this is going to last.

“I love you,” he whispers into Enjolras’ ear as the other man stirs.

“And I, you.”


End file.
